


'Till I Come Marching Home

by TriplePirouette



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, F/M, Skinny Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25465327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriplePirouette/pseuds/TriplePirouette
Summary: When Erskine’s experiment doesn’t work, Peggy gets shipped back to the European front while Steve stays back and ends up as Howards Lab Assistant. He writes her a letter every day, and she writes back when she can. Written for Tumblr’s Steggy Week 2020, Day 4: AU.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59
Collections: Steggy Week





	'Till I Come Marching Home

**Author's Note:**

> For Steggy Week ’20 on Tumblr Day 4: AUs and Crossovers. AU starting early in CA:TFA. An oddly satisfying “What if” that somehow went from a ficlet to almost 30 pages in 2 days, which is why I didn’t make it to post in time. Hope you enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> I pieced together the timeline best I could from info I found on the internet.

August, 1943

Brooklyn

“Did it work?” He asked, breathing heavy as Stark’s pod opened and tipped forward.

Erskine and Stark both gathered in front of him as he stepped down, wobbly enough that Howard reached out and steadied him. “How do you feel?”

Steve stood and rolled his shoulders, still as scrawny as when he went in. “The same.”

Erskine swore and walked away, looking at the settings along the console. “I don’t understand it,” he muttered in German.

The men in the observation booth were quickly escorted out by Phillips as Peggy rushed down the stairs. “What went wrong?” she demanded, coming to Steve’s side.

“Hell if I know,” Howard sighed, letting his hand rest on Steve’s shoulder. “You sure you don’t feel any different? Nothing’s… rumbling? Growing?”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up and he shook his head at the man. “No, sorry. All the same.”

Howard muttered and walked away, joining Erskine as he poured over the computer printouts to look for anything that might explain what happened. “Don’t go anywhere, Steve,” Stark yelled over his shoulder. “We’re gonna need some blood.”

Peggy reached out, taking the button down shirt from the side table and handing it to Steve. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

“Carter!” Phillips barked from the door above, “Get your ass up here, I need help with damage control!”

Peggy nodded quickly, but stepped closer to Steve. “What are you doing for supper tonight?”

He shrugged, still distracted as he buttoned the shirt. “Just the mess.”

“Meet me at the front gate? Eighteen hundred?” Her smile was slightly shy. “You deserve better than runny mashed potatoes for putting your life on the line and living to tell the tale.”

His jaw dropped open and he stuttered his reply, hands still on his buttons. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

Phillips’ voice boomed again. “Carter!”

“See you later,” she rushed out as she ran back up the stairs, pasting a smile on her face.

Erskine walked back up to Steve and put his hands on his shoulders, squeezing down his arms and poking at his chest. “I don’t understand,” he muttered, “it should have worked.”

“Sorry I let you down,” Steve’s voice was strong but still somehow a little broken. “Maybe I wasn’t the right guy.”

Erskine shook his head. “No. You were. We will figure it out.”

* * *

~*~

“Agent Carter,” he greeted her with an awkward wave as she trotted towards the gate. He was in his uniform, hat in his hands. She was still in the same uniform he’d seen earlier that day, though for some reason he expected to see her in a civilian dress. He’d hoped to see her in a dress, he realized, as he’d thought all afternoon about what her invitation might mean.

“Please, call me Peggy.” She was slightly out of breath as she caught up to him. “Sorry, a meeting with the Colonel ran late.” Her lips were pressed tight and she tried to smile but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and it fell flat. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, but if you need to get back…” He shrugged gesturing towards the offices, “Mess is still just fine to me.”

“No,” she straightened her skirt and pushed her shoulders back. “I can’t offer much, but the automat down the street has a passable roast.” He couldn’t tell if she was wearing a fresh coat of lipstick. Bucky had always said a fresh coat of lipstick was a good sign.

He nodded, turning and starting the walk with her, playing with the hat in his hands. He could feel the tension coming off of her in waves and couldn’t hold his tongue after a quiet block. “Was he mad?”

“Who?” She looked at him wide eyed, caught in her own thoughts.

“Phillips. That it didn’t go right today.” She was tense, far more than he usually saw her and he wasn’t exactly sure what was wrong, but he was starting to think that he’d really had hoped too much and gotten the wrong idea all together.

“No more than he usually is,” she muttered, “but the meeting wasn’t about that.” She nodded and put her eyes forward, clearing her throat and trying to make conversation. “Did Howard and Dr. Erskine run their tests yet?”

“They took some blood,” he tried to keep up; her walk was intense and quick. “But we’re going to do more tomorrow.”

She hummed an acknowledgement, but kept moving forward without saying more.

Steve suffered another silent block before he stopped walking, winded and starting to sweat. She turned, a few steps past him, and he knew that exasperated look on her face. He’d seen it on the face of every person he couldn’t keep up with, couldn’t match. He took a deep breath and spoke as confidently as he could before she could chide him, “You don’t need to pity me.”

Her shoulders dropped, the fight gone from her immedietly. “Pity you?”

“Pity me.” He took another wheezing breath. “It didn’t work. I’ll likely be 4F’d again by tomorrow night and back to picking up scrap metal the day after.” He shrugged. “A dame- woman- like you doesn’t need to be wasting your time with the likes of me.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as his breathing finally slowed. “I’m nothin’.”

She shifted from confusion to anger to disbelief faster than she could imagine. “Nothing? You’re not nothing, Steve.”

“I ain’t much,” he laughed darkly, “and you obviously don’t want to be here with me.”

It took her brain too long to click into place what her sharp demeanor and clipped sentences must actually look like to him. Once it did, she felt horrible. “You’re kind,” she started, stepping closer to him, “and intuitive. You’re smart and funny and quick as a whip. You were the first one, ever, to bring that flag down. You jumped on a grenade. You put yourself in harms way because you thought you might be able to do some good for the world. That is far from nothing.” She watched him stand hunched over, his attitude unchanged by her declarations.

“That’s all just being…” he scuffed his foot, shrugged. He couldn’t find the words.

She took another step closer. “You really just don’t see it, do you?” He looked at her, his eyes empty and just a little broken from the failure of the day. “You’re worth far more as a man than whatever you seem to believe.” She looked at her hands and twisted them in front of her. “And I should apologize. I do want to be here with you. The meeting with the Colonel soured my mood.”

She stood tall, taking a deep breath. “Right now, Erskine is desperately trying to keep Howard from throwing a tantrum and destroying his lab because he’s planning on another try. Hopefully with you if you haven’t given up on yourself by the morning.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted, a tiny spark coming back to his eyes. “He thinks it could still work?”

She smiled, a little more herself. “He’s a scientist. He never does anything once.”

Steve smiled back cautiously. “Guess maybe I shouldn’t give up, either.”

Peggy shook her head then looked down at her feet again. “No, you shouldn’t, but either way, I won’t be here to see it.” She looked Steve in the eyes, trying hard to keep his gaze. “They’re sending me back to the European front in five days. New orders.”

His smile fell quickly; he stepped forward and reached out, but dropped his hands when he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. “Oh, I didn’t…”

She took a deep breath and shook her head, smiling nervously. “No, I just found out myself. That was what Colonel Phillips was telling me. But… before I knew any of that I still asked you to supper tonight. I thought that maybe I’d like to get to know you better, Steve.” She tested his first name in her mouth, and liked the way it sounded when she said it. “I thought, maybe, we could get to know one another… and now that I’ll be gone, that I could… write you.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. It wagged for a moment before sound came out. “Yeah. Yes, I mean. Absolutely.” He nodded, swallowing and looking down. “You can write me.” He looked up and smiled as big as he could muster. “I’m a good pen pal.”

She didn’t waver her gaze this time, bottom lip between her teeth. “I was thinking more than pals.”

He rubbed his sweaty palms against his pant legs. “You want to…”

“-dance with you, Steve.” Her voice was quiet but sure. “I want to get to know you and I’d very much like to…dance with you.”

He stepped closer, suddenly more sure of himself. “I’ll probably step on your toes.”

She smiled, leaning down towards him. “I’ll borrow some boots.”

He kissed her softly, pushing forward with more zeal when he was sure she wasn’t going to step back or slap him. It left them both a little starry eyed and light headed when he pulled away. He moved forward to repeat it, but she pulled back, looking around at the street for anyone that might have seen. “Sorry, a woman’s reputation on base is bad enough…”

“Right,” he straightened up, nodding for a moment before he gestured for them to get moving again. “I didn’t mean to take advantage-“

“You didn’t.” Peggy looped her arm around his and he lifted his elbow to properly escort her the rest of the way. “We just need to not do that out in public again,” she said quietly, eyes straight ahead. “But I’d very much like to do more of that.”

“Got it.”

She could see the automat’s lights just a block away when she finally brought up the courage to speak her mind. “You were… very good at that.”

He laughed. “I’m short, not celibate.”

She looked both ways before they crossed the quiet side street, smiling slyly at him. “I thought you said you hadn’t danced?”

“I may have exaggerated a little.” He shrugged, admitting he was caught. “Nothing long term, nothing… serious. No…dances. But I’ve managed dates here and there.”

She nodded as they stepped up to the automat. “Good to know.” With a flourish he stepped to the side and opened the door wide, smiling brightly at her.

* * *

~*~

They’d managed a handful of dates to the automat before Peggy had to ship out. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but she told him about her brother and he told her about how Bucky was the closest thing he had to a sibling. She shared about how hard it was to be a woman in the SSR and he detailed how he’d been rejected from the Army over and over.

By the time he was on the dock, waving her goodbye, he was more than smitten. He was very nearly in love.

He went home and wrote her his first letter. It was two pages long and he decided he needed to invest in some good stationary and a sturdy pen.

* * *

~*~

August 23, 1943

Dearest Peggy,

It’s all right if I call you dearest, isn’t it? I could start with something more general, but it doesn’t seem to fit. I should have asked earlier, I guess.

Base isn’t the same without you, and you’ve only been gone a week.

Dr. Erskine and Howard will be trying to repeat the experiment with me in two days. I’ll let you know if I notice another spot along the way to Brooklyn where I got beat up.

Howard’s thinking of teaching me how to drive…

* * *

~*~

August 24, 1943

Dearest Steve,

The crossing is dreadful. The sea is cold and choppy, and I can’t be on deck for more than a few minutes before I’m cold and wet. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I miss the base acutely.

I’m sure you’ve written by now but I won’t receive it for days, even months yet. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to write, or I’ll be able to get letters. My first briefing tells me I’ll be active in the heart of Germany. I’ll do the best I can.

For now I’m in an office building during the day and sharing a bunk room with three other women at night…

* * *

~*~

September 18, 1943

Dearest Peggy,

After the second try failed, Erskine had nearly given up. Until today.

I’m an inch taller.

He measured me on a hunch. Said he noticed I could reach the top shelf in the lab without lifting up on my toes. He started running other tests and I’m stronger, too. Blood tests are pending, but he thinks he’ll see something there, as well. Looks like it may have worked after all, just not nearly as quickly as he hoped.

I’ve still only received your first letter. I hope that you’re still well, and that it’s just a normal delay. Don’t worry, I’ll send a letter in the mail every day until you tell me to stop. You’re not alone over there.

* * *

~*~

October 3, 1943

Dearest Steve,

Please don’t stop your letters. I got them all at once today and I almost cried with joy. I can’t share where I’ve been or what I’ve done, but they need me for now, and I won’t be home any time soon.

I can’t write every day like you can, and even if I could, most of my day I couldn’t share. But please, continue to detail your days for me. It keeps me grounded to hear Howard’s antics and how you’ve grown, literally and figuratively, at the base.

I miss you desperately, and long for our talks at the automat. And their warm roast beef sandwiches…

* * *

~*~

October 18, 1943

Dearest Peggy,

I got your second letter, and I promise to write every day without fail. Though, you may have to get used to me detailing the toast and jam I have for breakfast and the sweeping I do at base as little has changed.

Howard has officially taken me on as a lab assistant, so I’m no longer employed by the Army, but still on base as he and Erskine continue to work together.

I asked Erskine why the Army would let me go. He just smiled. I don’t think he’s told them about what has happened. I’ve gained 10 lbs, and most of it seems to be muscle, though Erskine is convinced some of it has to be bone because I’ve grown another inch.

I’ve started running around the track in the mornings. Don’t laugh. I know, me, running? Sounds funny…

* * *

~*~

November 15, 1943

Dearest Steve,

I fear I will not recognize you when I get home. You may not recognize me. I’ve been wearing wigs so often I nearly forget what my own hair looks like.

I’d look in a mirror, but we’re in the dregs of it now. More rubble and tents than buildings with luxuries like mirrors.

What should we do when the war’s over? I try to think about this at night to lull me to sleep, but it all seems so cloudy. Like this war will never be over…

* * *

~*~

December 1, 1943

Dearest Peggy,

When the war’s over, I want to take you dancing. Proper. Maybe to the Stork Club- I hear a lot of guys on base talking about it. You can teach me how to box step and I can try to stay off your toes. In the end we’ll just end up swaying to he music, which is fine by me so I won’t have to count the music to stay on beat every time I kiss you.

You shouldn’t have to bend down to kiss me anymore.

And when the war’s over I’ll take you to a real, live baseball game…

* * *

~*~

February 16, 1944

Dearest Peggy,

It gets harder and harder to write every day, not knowing if you’re getting these. Howard has been able to assure me only so much that you’re still alive. Five months and not a word from you. I’ve started to dream the worst at night. But I won’t break my promise.

And as I promised, content continues to be quite boring.

I had eggs for breakfast…

* * *

~*~

March 25, 1944

She was shivering in the candlelight as she read his letters in a tent at an SSR encampment. She’d been gone for months, losing track of time as she infiltrated a small group of Russians allied with Hydra, hoping to find out more about a woman code named “Black Widow.”

She’d gotten little, and they’d finally pulled her out, taking the group into custody to try other tactics to get their information.

Waiting for her at the base had been this cold tent and a shoebox full of Steve’s letters. She had little with her, and less still that’s she’d been able to take out in the field. Every night she dreamt of him, and wondered how he was doing and why he would even still bother writing her after all these months.

Page after page she turned. His letters were always long. His shortest was one page, front and back. His longest clocked in at five pages where he told her about a film he’d seen and described it in such detail she felt like she was sitting there next to him.

She wasn’t as prolific writing back. There wasn’t much ink for such things in the little pop-up camps she was usually in these days, and even less paper that wasn’t full of orders or Hydra base coordinates. Peggy had been forced to leave her notebooks and stationary in London, so she wrote with whatever scraps she could hoard in her little shoebox.

She paid Colonel Wright’s secretary a nominal salary to take care of her shoebox when she was undercover and to keep adding the letters from Steve. It was worth losing whatever pocket change she had to know the letters were safe.

She still had almost a dozen letters to read, but the nib of a candle she had wouldn’t last long. She pulled out her pen and started scratching together a reply.

* * *

~*~

March 25th, 1944

My Dearest Steve,

There is so much to say that I cannot share. Know that I am whole, fine, and very much alive. I spent months entrenched in a mission, every night wondering what you must think without a single letter from me, but I still couldn’t take the chance and write.

I was afraid it would be difficult to come back to myself after pretending to be another for so long.

But there were your letters.

All of them, one for every day I was gone, sitting in a stack waiting for me. With each word I read I felt the past months wash away, felt more and more like myself.

Even when reading about your failed Christmas pudding, it reminded me of warm things like home and sweet pies. Sugar is still far too scarce to even attempt something like that out here.

I’ll try to answer all your questions, but it may take several letters…

* * *

~*~

March 26, 1944

My Dearest Steve,

I will write every day, without fail, until I have to leave for a new mission. In case my last letter has not gotten to you yet, I am fine, unharmed, and missing you terribly.

The war is wearing on me. The men are crude and bloodthirsty one moment and tired and behaving like children the next. We’ve lost so many. If crossing the Atlantic were any safer I’d be begging for time away. I need some optimism again. I need idealism. I need you standing next to me with your surety, telling me everything will be fine.

I need you to hold me in your arms, and let me remember I’m a woman, not just an Agent. Remember when you kissed me the night before I left, I had you pushed up against the brick behind the automat…

* * *

~*~

April 15th, 1944

My Dearest Peggy,

Your letters have arrived. Five in all today. I yelled out loud when I saw them and startled the mailman. I’m relieved you’re safe and whole. I wish I could be there to hold you, to tell you that it will all be all right. You are an amazing Agent, and an outstanding woman. Surely you can handle those GIs, but it doesn’t mean you should have to.

Civilians can’t cross, otherwise I’d have bought a ticket in a second. I asked Howard today if he’d take me over with him next time he goes. Said best he could do would be to hand deliver some letters and a Kodak picture so you can see what I look like now.

Sugar’s in short supply here, too. I’ve been getting my rations and sharing them with the solder’s wives on base. Most of them have kids and while a cake won’t bring their dad home, it’s a nice distraction once in a while…

* * *

~*~

May 5, 1944

Howard stopped halfway into the small office that was temporarily hers at the SSR headquarters. “Don’t move a muscle,” he pulled a pen from his pocket and clicked it at her. When Peggy made a sour face, he shook his head. “Smile. It’s a camera.”

Her head tilted in disbelief. “That’s a camera?”

“Just smile.” She did as asked and he clicked the button twice more before tossing it in his pocket and crossing the room to hug her. “How are you Peg?”

She let him hold her just a little longer than she should have, but the human contact felt good. “Better now for a friendly face.” She pushed him back. “How long are you in town?”

“Not long. Gotta get to a place called Finow by the end of the week.” He pulled a small stack of letters from his back pocket. “Steve sends these, and his love, and just about any other greeting you can imagine.”

Peggy smiled brightly as she took the packet of letters. Her happiness did a lot to hide the dark circles under her eyes and the drawn tightness of stress in her chin. “How is he?”

Howard leaned back on her desk, crossing his arms tightly. “So far gone you’d never believe it. That kid is head over heels for you.” Peggy tried to hide her delight, but couldn’t. “And you’re gone for him!” Howard didn’t even try to contain his happiness. “Good.”

Peggy counted the letters silently, turning back to Howard sternly. “How is he? Really?”

Howard dug through his coat pocket and pulled out a small black and white picture. “See for yourself.”

“Good lord!” She pulled the picture from his hands, “He told me he put on ten pounds and two inches… this looks almost like another man!” Steve’s face was smiling back at her, fuller and squarer, with broad shoulders and almost a foot of height added to his frame.

“More like ten inches and probably fifty pounds just in muscle.” Howard shrugged. “Keep that picture close to you. We decided he needed to stop talking about what was happening, in case anyone’s read your letters.”

She turned, eyeing him before looking back at the picture. “You think?”

“You are a spy, Peg.” He pushed off the desk. “If someone’s not reading your letters they’re dropping the ball.”

“Point taken.” She slipped the picture on top of the pile of letters, unsure of what to do with it at the moment. “So tell me now.”

Howard shrugged. “We stopped reporting outcomes after the first inch he gained. I’m still studying the serum, and him, but Erskine and I both decided too many people with too many bad ideas were interested in Project Rebirth, so it’s been closed and shelved.” He scuffed his foot. “Officially, it’s a failure.”

“But he’s ok?”

“Unofficially, it’s a success. His asthma is nonexistent. Cardiovascularly he could be an Olympian. Eyesight’s better. Heart murmur’s gone. Anemia’s gone. Physically he’s in the best shape of anyone’s life. Mentally?” Howard laughed lightly as her eyes widened at his pause, “Still the same kid who can put his foot in his mouth you know and love. He’s still Steve, just…taller.”

“What do you think happened?” She asked, pulling out her chair and sitting, her fingers reaching out to pick up the picture of him again.

“Hell of we’ll ever really know,” Howard perched on the edge of her desk, looking over at the picture. “Best Erskine and I can figure Steve was _so_ damn skinny and sickly that it just took time. More time than we really anticipated.”

Howard watched the way Peggy gazed at the photo, her other hand on the stack of letters. “He’s worried about you, Peg, and I have to say I am, too.” Her eyes jumped to his, ready to defend her place in a man’s world, but he didn’t let her speak. “Not because we don’t think you can take care of yourself. We know that you can. But… he shared some of what you said in your letters. I’ve never heard you so lonely.”

“Spent more days in the last few months pretending to be someone else than I have been being myself,” she muttered, afraid of what she was about to reveal. “There’s no one to truly trust as a spy. It’s the job. It’s lonely and unforgiving.”

Howard put his hand on top of hers. “Can you take some time?”

“Now? No.” She stood, standing tall and desperately trying to show just how all right she was. “Tell Steve letters will be scarce again for a while.”

“How dangerous is-“

“Very. They’re all very dangerous. But you can leave that part out.”

* * *

~*~

May 28, 1944

My Darling Steve,

How silly is it that I’ve dreamed of you every night this week? Every one. My mother would have said it was an omen. That it meant you were in some kind of trouble. She believed in those things. I think it just means I miss you.

I dreamed of the day we went to Brooklyn. Dreamed that instead of driving we were walking, arm in arm, and you were telling me all bout your childhood.

There are still so many things I don’t know about you, and that I want to know. And I want to spend the rest of my life learning them…

* * *

~*~

June 15, 1944

Dearest Peggy,

It’s hot. It’s been hot. I can see the steam rising from the pavement as the morning sun hits the dew. Even with all of his inventions and money, Howard can’t beat the heat, either. He said to stay home for the day, but nothing about sitting in my apartment, letting the fan blow hot air from the open window on me sounds appealing.

If you were here we could go down this little hiking trail I found. There’s a creek at the bottom, and the ground is soft with years of leaves. The trees shade it, and it feels about twenty degrees cooler there. I’ve never seen another living person there, and it would be quiet, and cool, and private.

I might head down to the pharmacy- I heard they’ve somehow managed to get a delivery of ice, so the drinks from the soda fountain are cold…

* * *

~*~

July 4, 1944

Dearest Peggy,

Did you know today’s my birthday? Howard did. He threw a party.

There was a flamingo. I’d never seen one in person before.

It was mean and I have the peck-mark to prove it.

* * *

~*~

August 16, 1944

My Darling Steve,

There is so much to tell, and so little to say. Missions that are days turn into weeks and months away. Your letters pile up in my little shoebox while I am out playing at someone I’m not and never want to be, all for scraps of information for men in bunkers. Men who stay far away from the blood and devastation and order troop movements. Men who will never know the true meaning of sacrifice.

Today over 500 soldiers who were held hostage by Hydra were rescued because of a piece of information I brought back. It’s the only reason I don’t stop. Because these men, boys, could have been you. They have a girl home somewhere, too. They have a mother and a father, or children, waiting to hear… waiting for a letter.

You’ve never made me wait for a letter, and I’ve made you wait too, too long. I’ve missed saying Happy Birthday to you, and missed your celebration of us knowing one another for a year.

Nearly a year of me being away weighs so heavily on me. I asked today for leave. I had finally had enough. But the U-boats. Even if they could spare me, which apparently they can’t, they’d never send me back with the number of boats they’ve lost recently.

I threatened to quit, to go AWOL, and they threatened to lock me up for insubordination. Best they can do is guarantee me a desk for a few weeks, then I’m back out there.

I’ll write every day…

* * *

~*~

August 18, 1944

My Darling,

How do you do it? How do you write every day without repeating yourself? Two days and I feel at a loss for words other than what runs through my head like a mantra: I miss you, I want to come home. I could write you pages of that and never say it enough.

My mattress is little more than a bedroll and there’s one spring that pokes me horribly on my right thigh. It’s better than sleeping rough, which I’ve had the pleasure of doing this last year.

Stockings are completely out of stock anywhere I’ve looked, so I’ve resorted to drawing lines on the backs of my legs. They’re horribly uneven and are fooling no one…

* * *

~*~

August 20, 1944

Darling Steve,

Please learn how to cook Shepard’s Pie. I haven’t had a decent one since before the war and I am terrible at preparing meals. They inevitably end up burnt or inedible.

Perhaps I should have led with that earlier. I’ve been repeatedly told I’m not “marriage material,” whatever that means. But I don’t much cook. And I’m fairly horrible at sewing. I can, however, tidy a house with the best of them.

* * *

~*~

August 21, 1944

My Darling,

I used to love my job. It was thrilling, challenging. I was taking on the world and slaying the dragon. I was doing something that meant something.

It was fun, getting dressed up and chasing leads and playing a part until I could find answers. I used to infiltrate powerful organizations and help topple them to avoid fascist rule.

There is no fun. Only death. Only blood and loss and despair at night.

At night, people cry. I hear them cry in the dark because they can’t during the day. I don’t know how much longer I can be strong.

I wish I had something happy to write about. About birthday cakes or USO shows or drinking whisky around a fire with fellow soldiers. But those are few and far between. Day to day is laden with death reports and targets, dossiers and files of vile men who deserve the fates that befall them.

Tell me more about the creek. Tell me more about where you’ll take me when I’m home…

* * *

~*~

September 25, 1944

Dearest Peggy,

Your letters came in a bundle today, the envelopes soaked and half the dates smudged or washed away. I’ve tried to make sense of them, but they’re a mess. Dropped in a puddle or left out in the rain.

I’m not much of a chef, but I’ll do my best to learn how to make Sheppard’s Pie. I’ve got half the base wanting to find a way to thank me for the sugar I was never going to use, anyway, so maybe I’ll get a recipe box going. Howard’s new butler, Mr. Jarvis, seems to be a good cook, too, so I’ll ask.

It’s hard to decipher most of these letters. One word here, a sentence there. I see U-boats over and over, and just hope that you’re staying put. I’ve seen the newsreels, and as much as I want to see you, I can’t stand the thought of you trying to cross the Atlantic now…

* * *

~*~

September 26, 1944

“There you go, last one,” Howard said as he pulled his face away from the light box where he’d been piecing together Peggy’s ruined letter, sliding the crisp sheet of handwritten paper over to Steve.

Steve scanned the last page. “You read these?”

Howard switched off the box and leaned back in his chair. “How else do you think I got the missing parts?”

Steve pushed the letters back at Howard. “It’s hell for her!”

“It’s hell for everyone,” Howards mind flashed back to Finow and he shuddered. “She’s not wrong about any of it.”

“You told me she was ok,” he stood, putting his fists on the table and making the whole thing shake. “You told me she’d be fine.”

Howard leaned forward, his hand on Steve’s arm. “She will be. That woman is steel and fire. She ain’t gonna break.”

“Take me with you.”

“No.”

Steve pounded the table, the heavy wood cracking under his fist. “Take. Me. With. You.”

Howard stood, stepping into the angry man’s face. “You know I can’t. You know it’s a military charter and they check everyone out. Everyone. If they find out you ended up like this, THIS, and Erskine and I didn’t tell them, you are done for.”

“What good is _this_ if I can’t help? If I can’t help _her_?” He was loud, something Steve rarely was, but it felt good, just as good as the heart pounding sure and strong in his chest.

“How about every little boy and girl in Brooklyn, in the world, who has asthma and can’t play outside, huh?” Howard pushed him away gently. “You love her. Congratulations. Every GI Joe and GI Jane over there has a sweetheart or a husband or a wife waiting at home with little flags plastered in their windows.”

Howard stepped back, pushing the letters back towards Steve. “You try to go over there and the Allies gets their hands on you it’s bad. If Germany or Russia get you? Japan? You’re dead, she’s dead, and any chance we have at unlocking whatever secrets are living inside of you are dead.” Howard didn’t wait for a response, he just turned away from him. “Go home. Cool off. Write her another letter.”

* * *

~*~

September 26, 1944

Dearest Peggy,

I showed Howard your ruined letters, and he put them under fancy lights and rambled on about pressure and ink spectrums and not too much later he’d reproduced them all word for word.

I almost wish he hadn’t. I can’t stand how miserable you are.

I don’t know how to help you.

* * *

~*~

October 15, 1944

My Darling Steve,

Re: your September 30th letter… You ARE helping.

Your letters are the balm on my battered heart. Each day is dreadful and grey and so similar. I fear I’ve become desensitized to the violence of it all.

But then at night, I have a small flashlight and my shoebox. Here, at base, I can re-read your letters and hear your voice in my head clear as day. There, in the dark, pretending to be god-knows-who, I can hear your voice in my head like a memory, my favorite letters burned into my mind.

I’ve “watched” that picture you described to me so many times now. I can almost feel the cool breeze and the soft leaves surrounding the creek you tell me about. Your words are like I’m there, and I can escape for a little while.

My shoebox is almost full, but there’s still plenty of room…

* * *

~*~

October 16, 1944

Darling,

Tell me about Thanksgiving. I’ve never learned much about it, and know only that on base they serve the driest chicken and lumpiest mashed potatoes on that day. So tell me, when I’m home next year, how we’ll be celebrating…

* * *

~*~

November 2, 1944

Peg,

Thanksgiving wasn’t very much in our house. We didn’t have a lot, so dinner wasn’t ever that special. Mom always managed enough for a few apples, though, and if she didn’t have enough for a pie, we’d cook them whole in the oven with butter and cinnamon. But we talked about how the Indians saved the settlers by bringing them food, and we talked about the things we were thankful for in our lives.

I’m probably not explaining this well. To most there are big meals, excessive, even. Mr. Jarvis has already started planning the Stark Thanksgiving, which is supposedly having somewhere around 30 guests.

Speaking of Mr. Jarvis, he’s declared I’m no longer allowed in his kitchen as I am, and I quote, “unteachable.” He has promised to make you a “real Sheppard’s Pie” and a “Full English” when you get home, whatever that means…

* * *

~*~

December 1, 1944

Darling Steve,

The snow has come in, and we’re stuck in a small encampment in the German mountains. We’ve found an abandoned Hydra base, and it’s held up against the worst of the weather.

The good news is I’ve found a whole cash of this lovely paper. The bad news is they won’t be sending a rescue for a while.

* * *

~*~

December 18, 1944

Peg,

You’re never going to believe it. Remember my best friend, Bucky? I got both your letters the same day. You’re talking about a rescue coming for you, and he’s talking about leaving to get some “hot headed SSR spies who got themselves stranded in the mountains.”

Sounds pretty much on the nose to me…

* * *

~*~

January 15, 1945

Stephen,

If you insist on calling me hot headed we will be having some words. Just like Sargent Barnes and I had when I read your letter.

Upon orders, our group of “hot headed spies” have stayed with the 107th for the time being. Barnes is quite the character. He misses his best friend. We’ve quite bonded over that.

And some whiskey.

I wish I’d known these men earlier. They remind me of you: idealistic. Smart. Determined. If I’d known them all along, if I’d worked out of this regimen, so many things would have been different…

* * *

~*~

February 14, 1945

My Dearest Peggy,

It’s Valentine’s Day here. Silly little hearts and roses and empty romantic gestures abound. I hope you’re not breaking too many GI hearts out there.

We’ve danced around this for too long, and I can’t wait any longer to say it plainly. I’m in love with you, and I want to be with you when you get home. You can set the terms and the rules. I’ll take you out to as many dinners and dates as you want. Show you off at the Stork Club and take you to meet Bucky’s Aunt Bessy. We can move to London if you want. Or anywhere for that matter.

The thought of not seeing you each day, of not talking to you and finally hearing you reply to each of my questions in time, kills me.

So set the terms, my love. I’m here. I’m waiting. And I’m yours when you come marching home.

* * *

~*~

March 6, 1945

Steve-

Could you be any more sappy? Mail call came while Peg was in a briefing and I might have peaked at what you wrote her. Ok, I flat out opened it and performed a dramatic reading for a few of the boys.

She may kill me when she finds out, so I hereby leave all my worldly positions to you. Don’t get excited, it’s a pair of muddy boots and my gramps’ pocket watch you’re already holding on to for me.

You should know that Peggy turned down no less that fifteen men who tried to take her out on Valentines, and decked a guy for trying to kiss her behind the mess.

Not that she needs it, but I’ve taken to staying close to her. Mostly because she’s funny, but also because some of these guys aren’t quite right in the head after seeing all this shit.

Pretty sure she could take me, and anyone else who came at her, though.

You picked a good one, Steve.

Marching orders are coming in a day or so, cross your fingers these are the last ones.

-Buck

* * *

~*~

April 15, 1945

Steve-

We all almost died. Like, really honest to god almost died.

That fucking woman of yours saved us.

I have never been so damn happy your skinny ass was charming. She saved our fucking lives.

You’re not even going to believe this shit. We’re at this Hydra base and there’s this glowing blue box…

* * *

~*~

April 15, 1945

My Darling,

Your friend is an idiot. He was going to crash the plane we were all on to stop a bomb from going off.

Had he crashed, the bomb would have still likely gone off. And we’d all be dead.

There was plenty of gas. The plane was fine.

Bucky Barnes is simply an ignoramus. One radio to Howard and not only was he talking us through dismantling the bomb, he had Dugan flying smoothly in circles while we did it and eventually talked him to a landing.

It wasn’t smooth, but it was a landing.

Barnes is an idiot. You’ll have to convince me to let him be at the wedding.

Had I not mentioned the wedding?

As soon as you ask, that is. First convenient moment after I step foot in the US again. We can discuss details after I’ve learned what your lips taste like again.

And please tell Mr. Jarvis that the thought of a Full English is more than I can bear right now. We’re hardly able to get warm coffee most days.

Also, for good measure, Barnes is an idiot.

* * *

~*~

April 30, 1945

Buck-

I’ve heard you’re an idiot. For the record, please don’t try to kill Peggy anymore. I’d very much like to marry her.

She apparently has mixed feelings about you being at the wedding after you tried to kill her.

Please try to make amends; I don’t have anyone else to be my best man.

-Steve

* * *

~*~

April 30, 1945

Darling Peggy,

Bucky can be an idiot, but he’s generally a well-meaning idiot. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same. Sometimes you just go on autopilot, you know?

I am very, very glad you aren’t dead.

I’m also very, very glad your letters are sounding more like the Peggy I first met- strong and confident, and not afraid to call someone out. If it makes you feel better, please continue to call Bucky names. He can take it, and he owes me many, many favors.

It’s almost summer here. It’s nice to walk through the parks and see the kids on the swings and running through the grass. There’s this one spot, under a really beautiful weeping willow, that I’ve got my eye on for a picnic.

Sandwiches, I promise. That recipe box idea never did work out.

Howard says he thinks it is coming to an end. At least on the European front. The Pacific is another thing, apparently. He turned down something called the Manhattan Project, and he’s been mumbling about it ever since. It’s put him on edge, and I’m not sure I like it.

What do you think? Will you be home soon?

* * *

~*~

May 7, 1945

Darling,

They’ve surrendered. My god, the Germans have surrendered. The base is chaos: celebrating and singing and teams still gong in and out on missions.

But they’ve surrendered.

The end is coming. I can feel it…

* * *

~*~

May 7, 1945

Steve-

It’s fucking over. This whole shithole of a war is fucking over.

If I’m back for your birthday, we’re all getting drunk. Peggy included.

It’s fucking over.

* * *

~*~

May 20, 1945

Steve looked up as the pile of papers was tossed on his desk. Howard was standing in front of him, a wide smile on his face. “What’s this?”

“That, my friend, is a passenger manifest for a troop transport home.” Howard couldn’t help but beam as Steve riffled through it, searching for two names in particular. “Pages six and nine.”

Steve knocked over the chair behind him as he stood, fumbling the pages that scattered at his feet dramatically. “When does it get in?”

“Six days,” Howard said, stooping to pick up the pages. “That enough time?”

Steve didn’t even ask exactly to what Howard was referring, he just shook his head. “No.”

“Ok, then,” Howard stood, setting the haphazard pile on Steve’s desk, covering up the report Steve had been writing on the efficacy of his newest generator. “Where do we start?”

Steve took a couple long strides to pick up his coat, throwing it over his arm. “Engagement ring.” He got halfway to the door before he turned and looked back at Howard. “I need a haircut. And to tell Mr. Jarvis to start cooking.”

Howard laughed as Steve barreled out the door. He followed at a much more sedate pace, yelling out the hall. “Jarvis doesn’t need six days notice to cook breakfast!”

* * *

~*~

May 21, 1945

Dugan’s voice held no room for argument. “Stop.”

Bucky backed him up, pointing at her with his spoon from across the table. “You’re talking yourself in circles, Peg.”

Peggy grabbed her mug and held it up as the ship tilted with the hit of another hard wave to avoid spilling her tea. “We haven’t been in the same room together in-“

“Doesn’t matter.” Dugan talked around his mouthful of oatmeal. “He wrote you a letter every day for almost two years.”

“Two years!” Bucky pointed his spoon at her again, his words muffled by his own oatmeal.

Dugan swallowed and gulped down a mouthful of coffee that made him wince with its bitterness. “A guy doesn’t do that because he’s not interested.”

“He does that because he’s head over heels for you.” Bucky dropped his spoon in his bowl and reached out, wrapping his hand on her arm. “Peg, you gotta believe me. He hasn’t changed his mind.” When she couldn’t look him in the eye, he got nervous. “You haven’t changed your mind, have ya?”

“No!” She was emphatic; her head shooting up and eyes blazing. “Not in the slightest.”

“Then?” Bucky asked, taking his hand back to stir his breakfast as they rocked with the sea.

She stirred her oatmeal, but didn’t attempt a mouthful. “I’m just nervous, is all.”

Dugan laughed. It was small at first, but bust out into a guffaw. “You? Agent Peggy Carter? Your reputation precedes you, ma’am. Hard as nails. Best in a bind. Bees knees and all of that jazz.” He laughed again, and Bucky smiled, getting a kick out of his friend’s mirth. “I watched you face down Hydra with barely a blink, and one measly guy has you shuddering like a kitten!”

“Am not,” she retorted unconvincingly.

“Look,” Bucky swallowed his mouthful fast, “It’s probably gonna be weird at first. Yeah, it was a long time. But you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

* * *

~*~

May 26, 1945

Steve was waiting in the back of the crowd. Howard had flat out told him not to go, but to him that wasn’t an option. He’d gotten new clothes and a new haircut. He was clutching tight a small flag he’d been handed when he arrived. Each moment the ship in the distance grew bigger made his heart pound in his chest.

He couldn’t wait to see Bucky. To take him down to the bar and buy him a beer and hear about everything that had happened to him.

Bucky’s letters were always so much shorter than Peggy’s, and always lacking in details.

But Peggy.

He at once couldn’t wait to see her and didn’t want to see her. His gut was twisting. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe, like every other girl he’d met, it turned out she liked Bucky better. What if she didn’t like what he looked like now?

He’d invested so much in trying to show her how much he loved her from afar, what if, up close, he couldn’t love her enough?

Somewhere along those trains of thought, the ship docked. Cheers erupted as sailors and soldiers began to disembark. There were hugs and tears around him, kisses and whoops of joy. He didn’t move, couldn’t if he had wanted to. He was rooted to the spot, watching the reunions happen around him but his eyes always drifted back to the top of the gangplank.

Bucky’s familiar form hid her at first. She was sandwiched between Buck and the man he could only assume was Dum Dum Dugan based on the bowler hat he wore. In the minutes he watched them before they saw him, he watched the two men fight for the space between them. Everyone on the ship was so excited to make their way down to their waiting families that if Bucky and Dugan weren’t there, Peggy would have likely been trampled.

He could pin point the moment she saw him. He saw her breathe deep; a nervous smile took over her face. He was sure his expression wasn’t much better.

Almost two years ago he was sure and strong when he tried to take a deep breath in to lungs that didn’t work quite right and told her not to pity him. He should have been nervous then. He was absolutely nervous now. He waved the little flag, smiling, then let it drop, feeling asinine. From the zig-zag of the gang plank, Bucky cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled loud. “I’m stealing your girl, Rogers!” he licked his lips and yelled louder, “I hear she only likes scrawny guys!”

Peggy pushed Bucky so hard he almost toppled over the rail and into the harbor. He couldn’t hear it, but he could see the way her mouth moved around the words when she called Barnes a “bloody idiot.”

And just like that, he wasn’t nervous anymore.

He had a ring in his pocket. Mr. Jarvis was working on the Sheppard’s Pie. He could take a deep breath and not cough. Bucky had come home. Peggy had come home. The war was over.

In a second, he’d have her in his arms, and nothing would ever be the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case you're interested- I picture the non-skinny Steve in this story looks much like Chris Evans did around the launch of CA:TFA. Specifically, there's a picture of him floating around in a light blue button down and khakis, standing in front of a Sirius XM banner with his hands in his pockets. Take out the garish banner and in my mind that's the Kodak Howard hands Peggy.


End file.
